would think likely to, Miss.
REBECCA.
[_Busy with the flowers._] Come now, that’s only an idea of yours, Madam
Helseth. You can’t be _sure_ of what you’re saying.
MADAM HELSETH.
You think I can’t, Miss? But I can tell you I am. Why—if you _must_ know
it—I once took a letter in to Mortensgård myself.
REBECCA.
[_Turning._] No—did you?
MADAM HELSETH.
Yes, indeed I did. And a letter that was written here at Rosmersholm
too.
REBECCA.
Really, Madam Helseth?
MADAM HELSETH.
Yes, that it was. And it was on fine paper, and there was a fine red
seal on it too.
REBECCA.
And it was given to you to deliver? Then, my dear Madam Helseth, it’s
not difficult to guess who wrote it.
MADAM HELSETH.
Well?
REBECCA.
It must have been something that poor Mrs. Rosmer, in her morbid state——
MADAM HELSETH.
It’s you that say _that_, Miss, not me.
REBECCA.
But what was in the letter? Oh, I forgot——_you_ can’t know that.
MADAM HELSETH.
H’m; what if I did know it, all the same?
REBECCA.
Did she tell you what she was writing about?
MADAM HELSETH.
No, she didn’t exactly do that. But Mortensgård, when he’d read it, he
began questioning me backwards and forwards and up and down, so that I
soon guessed what was in it.
REBECCA.
Then what do you think it was? Oh my dear good Madam Helseth, do tell
me.
MADAM HELSETH.
Oh no, Miss. Not for the whole world.
REBECCA.
Oh you can surely tell me. We two are such good friends.
MADAM HELSETH.
Lord preserve me from telling you anything about _that_, Miss. I can
only tell you that it was something horrible that they’d got the poor
sick lady to believe.
REBECCA.
Who had got her to believe it?
MADAM HELSETH.
Wicked people, Miss West. Wicked people.
REBECCA.
Wicked——?
MADAM HELSETH.
Yes, I say it again. They must have been real wicked people.
REBECCA.
And who do you think it could have been?
MADAM HELSETH.
Oh, I know well enough what to think. But Lord forbid _I_ should say
anything. To be sure there’s a certain lady in the town—h’m!
REBECCA.
I can see that you mean Mrs. Kroll.
MADAM HELSETH.
Ah, she’s a fine one, she is. She has always been the great lady with
me. And she’s never had any too much love for you neither.
REBECCA.
Do you think Mrs. Rosmer was in her right mind when she wrote that
letter to Mortensgård?
MADAM HELSETH.
It’s a queer thing a person’s mind, Miss. Clean out of her mind I don’t
think she was.
REBECCA.
But she seemed to go distracted when she learned that she must always be
childless. It was _that_ that unsettled her reason.
MADAM HELSETH.
Yes, poor lady, that was a dreadful blow to her.
REBECCA.
[_Takes up her crochet and sits in a chair by the window._] But after
all—don’t you think it was a good thing for the Pastor, Madam Helseth?
MADAM HELSETH.
What, Miss?
REBECCA.
That there were no children. Don’t you think so?
MADAM HELSETH.
H’m, I’m sure I don’t know what to say about that.
REBECCA.
Oh yes, believe me, it was fortunate for him. Pastor Rosmer is not the
man to have crying children about his house.
MADAM HELSETH.
Ah, Miss, little children don’t cry at Rosmersholm.
REBECCA.
[_Looks at her._] Don’t cry?
MADAM HELSETH.
No. As long as people can remember, children have never been known to
cry in this house.
REBECCA.
That’s very strange.
MADAM HELSETH.
Yes; isn’t it? But it runs in the family. And then there’s another
strange thing. When they grow up, they never laugh. Never, as long as
they live.
REBECCA.
Why, how extraordinary——
MADAM HELSETH.
Have you ever once heard or seen the Pastor laugh, Miss?
REBECCA.
No—now that I think of it, I almost believe you are right. But I don’t
think any one laughs much in this part of the country.
MADAM HELSETH.
No, they don’t. They say it began at Rosmersholm. And then I suppose it
spread round about, as if it was catching-like.
REBECCA.
You are a very wise woman, Madam Helseth.
MADAM HELSETH.
Oh, Miss, you mustn’t sit there and make fun of me. [_Listens._] Hush,
hush—here’s the Pastor coming down. He doesn’t like to see dusting going
on.
[_She goes out to the right._
JOHANNES ROSMER, _with his hat and stick in his hand, enters
from the hall._
ROSMER.
Good morning, Rebecca.
REBECCA.
Good morning, dear. [_A moment after—crocheting._] Are you going out?
ROSMER.
Yes.
REBECCA.
It’s a beautiful day.
ROSMER.
You didn’t look in on me this morning.
REBECCA.
No, I didn’t. Not to-day.
ROSMER.
Do you not intend to in future?
REBECCA.
Oh, I don’t know yet, dear.
ROSMER.
Has anything come for me?
REBECCA.
The “County News” has come.
ROSMER.
The “County News”?
REBECCA.
There it is on the table.
ROSMER.
[_Puts down his hat and stick._] Is there anything——?
REBECCA.
Yes.
ROSMER.
And you didn’t send it up?
REBECCA.
You will read it soon enough.
ROSMER.
Oh, indeed? [_Takes the paper and reads, standing by the
table._]—What!—“We cannot warn our readers too earnestly against
unprincipled renegades.” [_Looks at her._] They call me a renegade,
Rebecca.
REBECCA.
They mention no names.
ROSMER.
That makes no difference. [_Reads on._] “Secret traitors to the good
cause.”—“Judas-natures, who make brazen confession of their apostasy as
soon as they think the most convenient and—profitable moment has
arrived.” “Ruthless befouling of a name honoured through
generations”—“in the confident hope of a suitable reward from the party
in momentary power.” [_Lays down the paper on the table._] And they can
say such things of me!—Men who have known me so long and so well! Things
they themselves don’t believe. Things they know there is not a word of
truth in—they print them all the same.
REBECCA.
That is not all.
ROSMER.
[_Takes up the paper again._] “Inexperience and lack of judgment the
only excuse”—“pernicious influence—possibly extending to matters which,
for the present, we do not wish to make subjects of public discussion or
accusation.” [_Looks at her._] What is this?
REBECCA.
It is aimed at me, plainly enough.
ROSMER.
[_Lays down the paper._] Rebecca,—this is the conduct of dishonourable
men.
REBECCA.
Yes, they need scarcely be so contemptuous of Mortensgård.
ROSMER.
[_Walks about the room._] Something _must_ be done. All that is good in
human nature will go to ruin, if this is allowed to go on. But it
_shall_ not go on! Oh, what a joy—what a joy it would be to me to let a
little light into all this gloom and ugliness!
REBECCA.
[_Rises._] Ah yes, Rosmer. In that you have a great and glorious object
to live for.
ROSMER.
Only think, if I could rouse them to see themselves as they are; teach
them to repent and blush before their better natures; bring them
together in mutual forbearance—in love, Rebecca!
REBECCA.
Yes, put your whole strength into that, and you _must_ succeed.
ROSMER.
I think success must be possible. Oh, what a delight it would be then to
live one’s life! No more malignant wrangling; only emulation. All eyes
fixed on the same goal. Every mind, every will pressing
forward—upward—each by the path its nature prescribes for it. Happiness
for all—through all. [_Happens to look out of the window, starts, and
says sadly._] Ah! Not through me.
REBECCA.
Not——? Not through you?
ROSMER.
Nor for me.
REBECCA.
Oh Rosmer, do not let such doubts take hold of you.
ROSMER.
Happiness—dear Rebecca—happiness is above all things the calm, glad
certainty of innocence.
REBECCA.
[_Looks straight before her._] Yes, innocence——
ROSMER.
Oh, _you_ cannot know what guilt means. But I——
REBECCA.
You least of all!
ROSMER.
[_Points out of the window._] The mill race.
REBECCA.
Oh Rosmer——!
MADAM HELSETH _looks in at the door._
MADAM HELSETH.
Miss West!
REBECCA.
Presently, presently. Not now.
MADAM HELSETH.
Only a word, Miss.
[REBECCA _goes to the door._ MADAM HELSETH _tells her something.
They whisper together for a few moments._ MADAM HELSETH
_nods and goes out._
ROSMER.
[_Uneasily._] Was it anything for me?
REBECCA.
No, only something about the house-work.—You ought to go out into the
fresh air, dear Rosmer. You should take a good long walk.
ROSMER.
[_Takes up his hat._] Yes, come. Let us go together.
REBECCA.
No, dear, I can’t just now. You must go alone. But shake off all these
gloomy thoughts. Promise me.
ROSMER.
I am afraid I shall never shake them off.
REBECCA.
Oh, that such baseless fancies should take so strong a hold of you——!
ROSMER.
Not so baseless I am afraid, Rebecca. I lay awake all night thinking it
over and over. Perhaps Beata saw clearly after all.
REBECCA.
In what?
ROSMER.
In her belief that I loved you, Rebecca.
REBECCA.
Right in _that_!
ROSMER.
[_Lays his hat down on the table._] The question that haunts me is this:
were we two not deceiving ourselves all the time—when we called our
relation friendship?
REBECCA.
You mean that it might as well have been called——?
ROSMER.
——love. Yes, Rebecca, that is what I mean. Even while Beata was alive,
all my thoughts were for you. It was you alone I longed for. It was when
you were by my side that I felt the calm gladness of utter content. If
you think it over, Rebecca—did we not feel for each other from the first
a sort of sweet, secret child-love—desireless, dreamless? Was it not so
with you? Tell me.
REBECCA.
[_Struggling with herself._] Oh—I don’t know what to answer.
ROSMER.
And it was this close-linked life in and for each other that we took for
friendship. No, Rebecca—our bond has been a spiritual marriage—perhaps
from the very first. That is why there is guilt on my soul. I had no
right to such happiness—it was a sin against Beata.
REBECCA.
No right to live happily? Do you believe that, Rosmer?
ROSMER.
She looked at our relation with the eyes of her love—judged it after the
fashion of _her_ love. Inevitably. Beata could not have judged otherwise
than she did.
REBECCA.
But how can you accuse yourself because of Beata’s delusion?
ROSMER.
It was love for me—_her_ kind of love—that drove her into the mill race.
That is an immovable fact, Rebecca. And that is what I can never get
over.
REBECCA.
Oh, think of nothing but the great, beautiful task you have devoted your
life to.
ROSMER.
[_Shakes his head._] It can never be accomplished, dear. Not by me. Not
after what I have come to know.
REBECCA.
Why not by you?
ROSMER.
Because no cause ever triumphs that has its origin in sin.
REBECCA.
[_Vehemently._] Oh, these are only ancestral doubts—ancestral
fears—ancestral scruples. They say the dead come back to Rosmersholm in
the shape of rushing white horses. I think this shows that it is true.
ROSMER.
Be that as it may; what does it matter, so long as I cannot rid myself
of the feeling? And believe me, Rebecca, it is as I tell you. The cause
that is to win a lasting victory must have for its champion a happy, an
innocent man.
REBECCA.
Is happiness so indispensable to you, Rosmer?
ROSMER.
Happiness? Yes, dear,—it is.
REBECCA.
To you, who can never laugh?
ROSMER.
Yes, in spite of that. Believe me, I have a great capacity for
happiness.
REBECCA.
Now go for your walk, dear. A good long walk. Do you hear?—See, here is
your hat. And your stick too.
ROSMER.
[_Takes both._] Thanks. And you won’t come with me?
REBECCA.
No, no; I can’t just now.
ROSMER.
Very well, then. You are with me none the less.
[_He goes out by the entrance door._ REBECCA _waits a moment,
cautiously watching his departure from behind the open door;
then she goes to the door on the right._
REBECCA.
[_Opens the door, and says in a low tone._] Now, Madam Helseth. You can
show him in now.
[_Goes towards the window._
_A moment after_ RECTOR KROLL _enters from the right. He bows
silently and formally, and keeps his hat in his hand._
KROLL.
He has gone out?
REBECCA.
Yes.
KROLL.
Does he usually stay out long?
REBECCA.
Yes, he does. But one cannot count on him to-day. So if you don’t care
to meet him——
KROLL.
No, no. It is you I want to speak to,—quite alone.
REBECCA.
Then we had better not lose time. Sit down, Rector.
[_She sits in the easy-chair by the window._ RECTOR KROLL _sits
on a chair beside her._
KROLL.
Miss West—you can scarcely imagine how deeply and painfully I have taken
this to heart—this change in Johannes Rosmer.
REBECCA.
We expected it would be so—at first.
KROLL.
Only at first?
REBECCA.
Rosmer was confident that sooner or later you would join him.
KROLL.
I?
REBECCA.
You and all his other friends.
KROLL.
Ah, there you see! That shows the infirmity of his judgment in all that
concerns men and practical life.
REBECCA.
But after all—since he feels it a necessity to emancipate himself on all
sides——
KROLL.
Yes, but wait—that is just what I do not believe.
REBECCA.
What _do_ you believe then?
KROLL.
I believe that _you_ are at the bottom of it all.
REBECCA.
It is your wife who has put that in your head, Rector Kroll.
KROLL.
No matter who has put it in my head. What is certain is that I feel a
strong suspicion—an exceedingly strong suspicion—when I think things
over, and piece together all I know of your behaviour ever since you
came here.
REBECCA.
[_Looks at him._] I seem to recollect a time when you felt an
exceedingly strong _faith_ in me, dear Rector. I might almost call it a
_warm_ faith.
KROLL.
[_In a subdued voice._] Whom could you not bewitch—if you tried?
REBECCA.
Did I try——?
KROLL.
Yes, you did. I am no longer such a fool as to believe that there was
any feeling in the matter. You simply wanted to get a footing at
Rosmersholm—to strike root here—and in that I was to serve you. Now I
see it.
REBECCA.
You seem utterly to have forgotten that it was Beata who begged and
implored me to come out here?
KROLL.
Yes, when you had bewitched her to. Can the feeling she came to
entertain for you be called friendship? It was adoration—almost
idolatry. It developed into—what shall I call it?—a sort of desperate
passion.—Yes, that is the right word for it.
REBECCA.
Be so good as to recollect the state your sister was in. So far as I am
concerned, I don’t think any one can accuse me of being hysterical.
KROLL.
No; that you certainly are not. But that makes you all the more
dangerous to the people you want to get into your power. It is easy for
you to weigh your acts and calculate consequences—just because your
heart is cold.
REBECCA.
Cold? Are you so sure of that?
KROLL.
I am quite certain of it now. Otherwise you could never have lived here
year after year without faltering in the pursuit of your object. Well,
well—you have gained your end. You have got him and everything into your
power. But in order to do so, you have not scrupled to make him unhappy.
REBECCA.
That is not true. It is not I—it is you yourself that have made him
unhappy.
KROLL.
I?
REBECCA.
Yes, when you led him to imagine that he was responsible for Beata’s
terrible end.
KROLL.
Does he feel that so deeply, then?
REBECCA.
How can you doubt it? A mind so sensitive as his——
KROLL.
I thought that an emancipated man, so called, was above all such
scruples.—But there we have it! Oh yes—I admit I knew how it would be.
The descendant of the men that look down on us from these walls—how
could he hope to cut himself adrift from all that has been handed down
without a break from generation to generation?
REBECCA.
[_Looks down thoughtfully._] Johannes Rosmer’s spirit is deeply rooted
in his ancestry. That is very certain.
KROLL.
Yes, and you should have taken that fact into consideration, if you had
felt any affection for him. But that sort of consideration was no doubt
beyond you. There is such an immeasurable difference between your
antecedents and his.
REBECCA.
What antecedents do you mean?
KROLL.
I am speaking of your origin—your family antecedents, Miss West.
REBECCA.
Oh, indeed! Yes, it is quite true that I come of very humble folk.
Nevertheless——
KROLL.
I am not thinking of rank and position. I allude to your moral
antecedents.
REBECCA.
Moral——? In what sense?
KROLL.
The circumstances of your birth.
REBECCA.
What do you mean?
KROLL.
I only mention the matter because it accounts for your whole conduct.
REBECCA.
I do not understand this. You must explain.
KROLL.
I really did not suppose you could require an explanation. Otherwise it
would have been very odd that you should have let Dr. West adopt you——
REBECCA.
[_Rises._] Ah! Now I understand.
KROLL.
——and that you should have taken his name. Your mother’s name was
Gamvik.
REBECCA.
[_Walks across the room._] My father’s name was Gamvik, Rector Kroll.
KROLL.
Your mother’s business must have brought her very frequently into
contact with the parish doctor.
REBECCA.
Yes, it did.
KROLL.
And then he takes you into his house—as soon as your mother dies. He
treats you harshly; and yet you stay with him. You know that he won’t
leave you a halfpenny—as a matter of fact, you only got a case full of
books—and yet you stay on; you bear with him; you nurse him to the last.
REBECCA.
[_Stands by the table, looking scornfully at him._] And you account for
all this by assuming that there was something immoral—something criminal
about my birth?
KROLL.
I attribute your care for him to involuntary filial instinct. Indeed I
believe your whole conduct is determined by your origin.
REBECCA.
[_Vehemently._] But there is not a single word of truth in what you say!
And I can prove it! Dr. West did not come to Finmark till after I was
born.
KROLL.
Excuse me, Miss West. He settled there the year before. I have assured
myself of that.
REBECCA.
You are mistaken, I say! You are utterly mistaken.
KROLL.
You told me the day before yesterday that you were nine-and-twenty—in
your thirtieth year.
REBECCA.
Indeed! Did I say so?
KROLL.
Yes, you did. And I can calculate from that——
REBECCA.
Stop! You needn’t calculate. I may as well tell you at once: I am a year
older than I give myself out to be.
KROLL.
[_Smiles incredulously._] Really! I am surprised! What can be the reason
of that?
REBECCA.
When I had passed twenty-five, it seemed to me I was getting altogether
too old for an unmarried woman. And so I began to lie about my age.
KROLL.
You? An emancipated woman! Have you prejudices about the age for
marriage?
REBECCA.
Yes, it was idiotic of me—idiotic and absurd. But some folly or other
will always cling to us, not to be shaken off. We are made so.
KROLL.
Well, so be it; but my calculation may be right, none the less. For Dr.
West was up there on a short visit the year before he got the
appointment.
REBECCA.
[_With a vehement outburst._] It is not true!
KROLL.
Is it not true?
REBECCA.
No. My mother never spoke of any such visit.
KROLL.
Did she not?
REBECCA.
No, never. Nor Dr. West either; not a word about it.
KROLL.
Might not that be because they both had reasons for suppressing a year?
Just as you have done, Miss West. Perhaps it is a family foible.
REBECCA.
[_Walks about clenching and wringing her hands._] It is impossible. You
want to cheat me into believing it. This can never, never be true! It
cannot! Never in this world——!
KROLL.
[_Rises._] My dear Miss West—why in heaven’s name are you so terribly
excited? You quite frighten me! What am I to think—to believe——?
REBECCA.
Nothing! You are to think and believe nothing.
KROLL.
Then you must really tell me how you can take this affair—this
possibility—so terribly to heart.
REBECCA.
[_Controlling herself._] It is perfectly simple, Rector Kroll. I have no
wish to be taken for an illegitimate child.
KROLL.
Indeed! Well well, let us be satisfied with that explanation—in the
meantime. But in that case you must still have a certain—prejudice on
that point too?
REBECCA.
Yes, I suppose I have.
KROLL.
Ah, I fancy it is much the same with most of what you call your
“emancipation.” You have read yourself into a number of new ideas and
opinions. You have got a sort of smattering of recent discoveries in
various fields—discoveries that seem to overthrow certain principles
which have hitherto been held impregnable and unassailable. But all this
has only been a matter of the intellect, Miss West—a superficial
acquisition. It has not passed into your blood.
REBECCA.
[_Thoughtfully._] Perhaps you are right.
KROLL.
Yes, look into your own mind, and you will see! And if this is the case
with you, one may easily guess how it must be with Johannes Rosmer. It
is sheer, unmitigated madness—it is running blindfold to destruction—for
him to think of coming openly forward and confessing himself an
apostate! Only think—a man of his sensitive nature! Imagine him disowned
and persecuted by the circle of which he has always formed a
part—exposed to ruthless attacks from all the best people in the
community! He is not—he never can be the man to endure all that.
REBECCA.
He _must_ endure it! It is too late now for him to retreat.
KROLL.
Not at all too late. By no means. What has happened can be hushed up—or
at least explained away as a mere temporary aberration, however
deplorable. But—one measure is certainly indispensable.
REBECCA.
And what is that?
KROLL.
You must get him to legalise the position, Miss West.
REBECCA.
His position towards me?
KROLL.
Yes. You must make him do that.
REBECCA.
Then you absolutely cannot clear your mind of the idea that our position
requires to be—legalised, as you call it?
KROLL.
I would rather not go into the matter too closely. But I believe I have
noticed that it is nowhere easier to break through all so-called
prejudices than in—h’m——
REBECCA.
In the relation between man and woman, you mean?
KROLL.
Yes,—to speak plainly—I think so.
REBECCA.
[_Wanders across the room and looks out at the window._] I could almost
say—I wish you were right, Rector Kroll.
KROLL.
What do you mean by that? You say it so strangely.
REBECCA.
Oh, well—please let us drop the subject. Ah,—there he comes.
KROLL.
Already! Then I will go.
REBECCA.
[_Goes towards him._] No—please stay. There is something I want you to
hear.
KROLL.
Not now. I don’t feel as if I could bear to see him.
REBECCA.
I beg you to stay. Do! If not, you will regret it by-and-by. It is the
last time I shall ask you for anything.
KROLL.
[_Looks at her in surprise and puts down his hat._] Very well, Miss
West—so be it, then.
_A short silence. Then_ JOHANNES ROSMER _enters from the hall._
ROSMER.
[_Sees the_ RECTOR, _and stops in the doorway._] What!—Are _you_ here?
REBECCA.
He did not wish to meet you, dear.[11]
KROLL.
[_Involuntarily._] “Dear!”
REBECCA.
Yes, Rector Kroll, Rosmer and I say “dear” to each other. That is one
result of our “position.”
KROLL.
Was _that_ what you wanted me to hear?
REBECCA.
That—and a little more.
ROSMER.
[_Comes forward._] What is the object of this visit?
KROLL.
I wanted to try once more to stop you and win you back to us.
ROSMER.
[_Points to the newspaper._] After what appears in that paper?
KROLL.
I did not write it.
ROSMER.
Did you make the slightest effort to prevent its appearance?
KROLL.
That would have been to betray the cause I serve. And, besides, it was
not in my power.
REBECCA.
[_Tears the paper into shreds, crushes up the pieces and throws them
behind the stove._] There! Now it is out of sight. And let it be out of
mind too. For there will be nothing more of that sort, Rosmer.
KROLL.
Ah, if you could only make sure of _that_!
REBECCA.
Come, let us sit down, dear. All three of us. And then I will tell you
everything.
ROSMER.
[_Seats himself mechanically._] What has come over you, Rebecca? This
unnatural calmness—what is it?
REBECCA.
The calmness of resolution. [_Seats herself._] Pray sit down too,
Rector.
[RECTOR KROLL _seats himself on the sofa._
ROSMER.
Resolution, you say? What resolution?
REBECCA.
I am going to give you back what you require in order to live your life.
Dear friend, you shall have your happy innocence back again!
ROSMER.
What can you mean?
REBECCA.
I have only to tell you something. That will be enough.
ROSMER.
Well!
REBECCA.
When I came down here from Finmark—along with Dr. West—it seemed to me
that a great, wide new world was opening up before me. The Doctor had
taught me all sorts of things—all the fragmentary knowledge of life that
I possessed in those days. [_With a struggle and in a scarcely audible
voice._] And then——
KROLL.
And then?
ROSMER.
But Rebecca—I know all this.
REBECCA.
[_Mastering herself._] Yes, yes—you are right. You know enough about
this.
KROLL.
[_Looks hard at her._] Perhaps I had better go.
REBECCA.